


Oculus

by BadTimesDontLast



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, I don't think this has been done, Military Backstory, Slow Burn, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-06 08:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11032113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadTimesDontLast/pseuds/BadTimesDontLast
Summary: A year after Dean Ambrose is honorably discharged from the army, life in New Jersey isn't something he's growing accustomed to easily. He's harboring demons he doesn't necessarily want to face, but every time he closes his eyes, he can't possibly avoid them. However, a woman shares the same sentiment, reliving the worst of her past. Unfortunately, the incident she continues to relive is the one that left her blind.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Prepare for a slow burn since this idea has been looming over my head for a while now. I’m trying something different. Maybe you'll like it, maybe you won't. Let's find out. Enjoy.

The blaring alarm clock doesn't settle when a large hand meets the side of it. The palm bangs off the nightstand a few times, plummets down once the button’s located. It shouldn't have come as a surprise and for some reason, he's mildly irritated he hasn't gotten the hang of things yet. By this point in time, life in the New Jersey apartment should come as second nature. It's been a year and he still hasn't been able to become accustomed to finding the alarm clock at bedside. Granted, his head’s underneath a pillow, and his eyes are still closed, but his arm should be able to measure from where he sleeps, avoiding over extension in the process. His mild irritation catapults in how his arm drapes over the side of the bed, brain too aware of surroundings to snooze for an extra five minutes. He went off muscle memory to find the damn thing, but being fully awake didn't call for sleep to be caught. For those extra five minutes, his cranium under the pillow begins to pool in heat, sweat sticking strands of his curls to the back of his neck. Albeit it’s becoming uncomfortable, he's slowly falling back to sleep, until a loud knock on his door alerts his system, his frame jolting from the mattress. He's at the door in seconds, muttering obscenities as he makes his way over. One cerulean eye peers through the circular opening and he's rolling his eyes when he sees who's there. The knocks proceed and he has no other choice, unlocking the ivory door and walking away after.

He's padding barefoot towards his bed as a large Samoan enters, gaze at the clothes on the floor, darting back to the man settling back into bed after entry of his room.

“You are not sleeping the day away. I told you last night that today's the grand opening,” he rumbles, echoes off the thin walls as he throws a pair of pants he peeled off the tiled floor to hit the other man with.

“I don't see why I have to be there. Don't you have other friends who could kiss your ass of how great the place looks?” His tone is thick with sleep, but he's moving from the cover to slip on the denim jeans he got pelted with. Several pops in his neck occur as he tilts his head from one side to the next, causing the Samoan to grimace.

“I don't need anyone kissing my ass, I need honest opinions. Which is why you have to be there,” he says as he leans into the door’s frame. It looks a lot smaller in comparison to the man, the contrast one the other catches quick. He's wondering how his door frame hasn't cracked in apprehension.

“Whatever, man. I was already getting up before you got here,” he replies as he's rummaging through a drawer for a clean shirt. Eventually, he settles for a crisp, white one, arms pushing through the fabric’s holes. He's talking as he brings his head through the final one with the aid of his hands. “Was going to be a bit late, yeah, but I was going.”

The tattoos on the Samoan’s arms almost bulge in how he flexes in irritation, one overlapped over the other across the expanse of his chest. A daunting urge hangs over the crown of his head as he contemplates homicide, but he keeps his cool as he pushes off the bedroom door’s frame.

“You suck at lying. Don't know why you even try,” he's slipping out of the room now, leaving the other man to slip on a pair of shoes after he rummaged for socks.

“If you know me so well, why are you expecting more?” With the Samoan leaving the room, he takes advantage of the opportunity to slip on his dog tags, tucking them underneath his t-shirt. There's no glance in the mirror as he's following his friend out the door, grabbing keys as it shuts behind him. The multiple locks were set into place, a grumble coming from the Samoan.

“Who's going to try breaking in?” He asks, positive no one will. The apartment is small and the locks are unnecessary. They'd have a better chance in getting something valuable if they robbed an ice cream truck.

“Your mom likes to swing by and let herself in sometimes,” he retorts, earning himself a smack to the back of the head that's quicker than lightning. He's about to retaliate and offer his own form of reprisal when two men, almost identical, make their way over and clap him on the back of his shoulders.

“Wassup, uce? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” One of them asks.

“Well, I'm not exactly looking forward to being surrounded by a bunch of people I don't know,” he shrugs his shoulder, the other's hand slipping off with the catch of the hint. It's normal, he doesn't like being touched.

“How the fuck do you expect to make friends, then?” The almost-identical-other-one asks in a tone that solely the larger Samoan could possibly tolerate on a daily basis.

“I don't.” The truck door slams as he slips inside and leans back into his seat. The twins look over at the Samoan who tilts his head towards the bed of the truck. It’s rusted maroon and sky blue finish has the twins scoff, but they're settling into their seats in no time with aid of the tire.

“Go easy on Dean, alright? He’s still… adjusting. I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't talk to any of the family today,” the Samoan says with a glance to Dean, who's oblivious, or at least acting so, to their current conversation.

“It's been a year. He can't avoid human contact forever,” Jey interjects.

“If it weren't for me, I think he damn well would.”

A suspire coats the air as Roman opens the rusting truck's door at the driver's side. Slipping inside, his hands claim the wheel and he's taking a glance towards Dean with a nonchalant smile.

Nothing is received back. Instead, Dean opts to stare out the window, almost as if he wants to be somewhere else. The hustle and bustle of the city melts away into something Roman could never fathom without collecting direct experience.

It all melts away as Dean remembers.

* * *

 

This is a skirt.

The fabric feels sheer and it halts at the apex of her thighs, so it has to be a see through mess of ivory exposing her brightly colored fuchsia panties lined with violet bows.

It  _ has  _ to be a skirt.

With a twirl, air collects across bronzed thighs and catches under the alleged skirt’s fabric, spinning it into a brief disc  _ definitely _ exposing her brightly colored fuchsia panties costing her a grand total of 24.98 at a Victoria's secret.

Oh hell no _. It. Really. Is. A. Fucking. Skirt. _

“Isn't this too revealing? Everything under seems as if it's not sacred,” her timid voice sounds.

It's just not the skirt bringing the vulnerability of subjection, for the straps across centimeters of her collarbone in width give worry to further establish itself. The shirt’s silk melts down to cleavage she's positive she's putting on full display. There isn't much of a valley for this crease, but she knows it's there since chill spreads goosebumps down her chest. Landing this phenomenon to the middle of her ribcage, she doesn't believe in anything less and cannot possibly attempt to believe it. Stumbling as she reaches down to remove her shoes, a pair of hands are at her shoulders to push her into a surprised/spontaneous sitting position at the edge of her bed right where it gives the sensation she might slip and hit the carpet underneath. Her head tilts in where she believes the other to be, visible irritation forming and dawning features that shouldn't be creating worry lines.

“You look fine, babe. Nothing too revealing and since it's hot as hell outside, I went with something that you won't sweat in. Don't worry, I can't see anything underneath,” a male's voice reassures. It could belong to anyone, really, but to her, it belongs to Grant.

Tugging onto her bottom lip with her two rows of teeth, she slowly nods her head. She trusts him as she reaches for his hands, a notion he immediately engages with in offering.

“Will you… will you describe it to me?”

Placing glasses onto her facial structure to hide away piercing, ice blue eyes, Grant smooths hair strands away from her forehead. He stares at the gloss on her plump lips, the glisten the source of how he moistens his mouth with the quickest droll of his tongue.

“It’s a red tank top. I don't know what the material is, but you have a better sense of that kind of stuff.”

“It's silk,” she interjects right on cue.

“Right.  _ Silk _ . It's loose around your waist, and before you say anything, no, it's not because you've lost weight. It's supposed to look like that. At least that's what all these damn websites say that I get them off. Anyways, it's not showing your bra that much and it's tucked into your skirt—”

“Is it white?”

“No, it's not white, it's black. Hiding everything away. It's rather modest, too, since it's just above the knee right now where you're sitting.” Sitting beside her, Grant relinquishes her hands in order to place one onto her right knee. Her attention focuses to where she felt his weight shift.

“It feels shorter,” she frowns.

“Everything feels maximized to you, doesn't it? I think if it was past your knees, it would feel like it currently looks. It's okay. Besides, do you think that I would want anyone staring at you?”

“Well, no, I don't think so.”

“Of course I don't. You're beautiful, yeah, but I don't want guys staring at you. I think I picked some good clothes for tonight. Besides, we're just going to be at your cousin's bar. Nothing but family there, so nothing to worry about,” Grant let out, standing to his feet. With a guide of his hand, the simple persuasion guides her to her own feet, cautious padding occurring as she follows him out of the room.

“What if they ask about what happened…?” She says, and stops them both in their tracks. Grant stares at the raven haired beauty, the way it's tied back into a ponytail, something he had to do since he didn't want her to do it herself. He didn't keave her bangs out, the smooth canvas of her forehead being touched by his lips as if to give some kind of reassurance.

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Liz.”

Liz fidgets with the concept, imagines their words since she can't seem to imagine physical appearances very well without the usage of fading memories. Forgetting what others look like is one thing, but when you forget what seeing is like too, you're basically fucked. Toying with the idea as she's led out of her apartment into the New Jersey weather, she follows Grant to the small car she remembers as blue, but Grant insists it to be purple. Maybe it is and she's getting worse.

Leaning back into her seat, she's left with no other option but to listen to Grant talk about his day at work yesterday, hearkening every detail of the grand welding life and how easy it is for metals to take on lives of their own. Her eyes slip closed, but he doesn't see them. The black lenses of her glasses are blocking the connection of eye contact. Or perhaps he's glancing over at her every now and then as he drives.

It's not like she could see his eyes, anyway.


	2. flaws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was a bit of a glimpse into this. I wanted to set something up vaguely. Now we dive into it all. Reviews/comments are always welcome.

Sitting onto the wine tinted upholstery of the metal bar stool, Dean's legs drape past the surrounding ring nearing midway, accommodating the stool’s design. As always, his tall physique is besting the seat he's chosen, but the choice in seating is clearly one besting a variety of other seats on both aesthetic and comfort factors. The foundation resembles metal in its golden finish, and here's where Dean's located the first flaw he's going to point out.

It's not that Dean's bitter and has nothing better to do with his time than point out the negative, but honest opinions were his forte and Roman essentially drug Dean over for his grand opening. If the gaudy neon sign in the front seemed to be the best Roman could do, Dean figured the rest of the place would also be attempting to garner attraction through mere appearance. It'd probably be the sole reason since he's positive the drinks would be shitty. Decor and lightning were Roman's best friends, but Dean's tempted to use the bottom of his boot to see if he could scrape the “gold” off the metal of the stool he's sitting on.

He outstretches his hands onto the syrup finish of the counter in front of him, the shifts in hue truly resembling the dewy liquid spreading and rolling down a set of pancakes. It's free of scratches, and it feels exactly how wood should feel, but Dean's not going to tell him that. He's here to critique and make improvements, not give gold stars like an elementary school teacher who smokes outside of the building because of how exasperated she is. Speaking of smoking…

The stool’s legs scrape backwards on the wooden floor, but there's no creaking sound to Dean's disbelieving ears. He wonders how the hell Roman managed to render it soundless, but the wonder dies as he views the black sealings at the bottoms of the faux-golden legs.

“Leaving already? You just sat down,” Roman comes up to Dean as he leans an elbow onto the maple-syrup-y counter.

“Just going outside for a smoke. Nothing you need to worry about,” Dean replies with blue eyes examining as the flood of tattoos and big busts begin to flow through the door.

“Thought you were quitting.” Noticing and recognizing family members, a soft grin rests on his lips as he then turns back to Dean. He's not surprised to see Dean's still focused on the people.

“I am. One cigarette a day. It happens to be that time of day.” Slinking away from the area, he mutters a curse under his breath as he views the oncoming storm. Nothing he could navigate through without being stopped since there are a few familiar faces.

Roman and Dean weren't close through their years in elementary, but in high school, it's really where they began to bond. However, Roman's grades showed superb potential given that they were A’s and B’s, while Dean's report card read D’s and F’s. Given Dean's circumstances, Roman's family understood why the young man stayed over more often than not. Except, Roman was nomadic. If he'd been in Cincinnati earlier, they probably would've prospered as friends in elementary. Incidents could've been avoided if he had Roman's house to hide away at. As selfish as it is, Dean did find a friend in someone who didn't think lowly of him as others did. Leaving for the army seemed like a prime option since he didn't know what else he'd be good for except destruction that wouldn't be frowned upon. Over a decade,he spent his twenties in purgatory, but it was times like these he wanted to go back. In the outskirts of war, no one would look down at him as a wounded soldier—not like how they looked at him now.

“Cutting down on something that's horrible for you doesn't make it any less horrible.”

“No, but it's a step in the right direction,” he quips right back with a turn of his head that rustles his curls into his eyes. A perk of being out of the military had to be growing out his mess of hair, leaving it as unkempt as he pleased.

“Or maybe it's a step away from everyone who's coming towards you,” Roman notes as he gestures towards the reunion of family.

“It’s not like they'll miss me anyway. Think I could go without the twenty million questions asking if I ever killed anyone, too.” Walking from Roman, Dean taps at the wooden exterior of the counter as he heads towards the back door.

“Did you?!” Roman calls from across the bar and Dean smirks as his back meets the swinging door.

“That’s my burden, not yours. By the way, I could totally tell your stools are spray painted gold,” is all Dean has left to say as he disappears to the back of the building.

“I hand painted them, jackass,” Roman mutters under his breath as his attention is stolen by someone who flat out takes a seat and claps his palms loudly onto the counter.

“Bartender, if you're through with talking to yourself, I'd like one of your finest beers filled to the brim of a mug right in front of me,” he exclaims as he looks to Roman with a sly smile.

“Since when does Seth Rollins drink?” A hearty laugh echoes as he brings Seth into a hug and pats his back a few times. Striding behind the counter, Roman gets onto making the command. The clinking of glasses sounds as he maneuvers.

“Thought I'd be your first customer. I saw Dean sitting here and thought I was too late,” Seth leans forward as he stares at the amount of people.

“Nah, Dean's being Dean as always,” Roman replies as he pours the liquid into a mug, foam beginning to add texture.

“I know there's a lot of campaigns and shit promoting to be yourself, but does he really have to be himself one hundred percent of the time?” The mug slides within Seth's vicinity and his hand is beginning to clasp the cold exterior of the glass exuding condensation.

“Come on, Seth, don't be a d—”

“A Dean?” He smugly interjects with a sip of his beer.

“I was gonna say dick.”

“Yeah, I don't see a difference.” Seth takes a longer drink as he looks around the room and shakes his head. “This seems more like a family reunion than grand opening.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“It's like—wait, what the hell are you doing,” Seth says as Roman stands onto the bar’s counter. He stares up at Roman with a puzzling expression taking his features.

“Alright, everyone, welcome to Roman’s. I'm a simple guy who enjoys the simple pleasures. I like a good beer and I like to have a good time. That's why we have the arcade games over there and a stage for live music that will be here at five in the afternoon. But if you're not going to buy anything, then I  _ will _ have to ask you to get the fuck out. And if you're drunk disrupting the atmosphere for everyone else, I  _ will _ have to  _ force _ you to get the fuck out. Are we clear?” Roman's voice booms lucidly, the good nature of his voice in the crevices of his admonition expertly weaving and the audience comprised of mostly family agrees in a roar of yeses. “Good, let's get this ball rolling. I already had my first customer here.”

The gesture to Seth puts all eyes on him, but he's not bothered since he's too busy laughing at Roman's antics. The laughter ceases when Grant seats himself to the stool empty beside Seth. Everyone's taking different seats and talking amongst themselves as the workers get on the ball to ask them what kind of drinks they want, and Roman's preoccupied with the others across. Seth's scowling as Grant chuckles and smooths his hair back.

“You don't look happy to see me,” Grant slyly says as he keeps his gaze on Seth.

“You haven't came to work in a few weeks, what kind of fucking boss would be happy to see you,  _ here _ , of all places.”

“I figured if you really needed the help, you would call. Besides, it's just a gym,” Grant taps his fingers along the wood.

“ _ Just a gym _ ? You think Becky and I could run a crossfit gym by ourselves with people purchasing new membership everyday?”

“Look, it's been a rough couple of weeks. My girlfriend over there,” he points towards Elizabeth who's sitting in a chair being talked to by a couple of other women, “she's blind and she flew in unannounced. Would've came to work if I wasn't acting as a full-time caretaker.”

“She related to Roman? Black hair gives it away.”

“I didn't even know until she got a call. I guess that's why she came over here. I didn't know Roman's entire goddamn family lives in New Jersey.”

“They flock like birds. Anyways, it sounds like she needs said family. Why not leave her with family members and actually come to fucking work, yeah?”

“Believe me, I've tried. They seem like they're always busy. But… I haven't asked Roman.”

“Ha, you think Roman is going to have time to babysit a grown ass woman when he barely opened a business?” Seth shakes his head as he drinks down more of the bitter fluid he's going to have to work twice as hard to get off.

“Maybe if I ask nicely I could leave her here where I know she'll be safe. Come on, who messes with a two hundred and fifty pound Samoan?”

“Someone who's got no inhibitions. Which alcohol happens to take away. I'm telling you, this is a terrible idea. But, it's your business, not mine. So either show up to work, or get fired.” The last warning has been said when Seth finishes his beer and offers the lady at the front podium the money. Then he's out the door, leaving from the establishment as Grant sighs heavily.

Standing to his feet, he glides off to the restroom, a frustrated veil coming over his frame. It would be easier if he could've made his decision earlier. The day Elizabeth flew in, he knew he was royally screwed. He's caught in a predicament of trying not to look like an asshole, but time and things change. If only he knew how to make this work.

“I’m gonna go ask Roman for another drink,” Elizabeth interrupts in the middle of all the talking. Her glasses are set onto the table since they cause her to feel more disabled than what she already feels like. None of the women seem to notice since they continue their conversation. She stands with a suspire, a meticulous gait beginning to occur as she shakes her glass lightly. It still holds an ample amount of liquor by the weight and sound of ice floating, but she needed some kind of excuse to step away from the overwhelming amount of words being said at once.

The women went from, “Hello! So good to see you again,” to, “oh my, bad choice of words,” to, “I love that color on you.” In all its dramatic irony, she decided perhaps it wasn't the best place to be. Getting a bit of space with her cane at hand seemed to be the optimal choice. So she did, navigating through a crowd of people. The chattering voices never did suit her well. Since the accident, every time a large gathering would talk all at once, she would hear everything. The tones were amplified and were far more distinct, forcing her to listen to people who talk about nothing. The surprise comes in how she hasn't faced an anxiety attack, too many voices at once she's unable to pin, but none of the noise is static. She wishes it would be, because at least that's what the brain ignores, and none of it matters.

Absolutely none of it.

She's positive she's walked into a solid mass of wall when she contacts the hard wood of the floor underneath, wincing in from the impact. Droplets of liquor spill down her hand, spots landing at the skin of her chest. Maybe she's as bad with perception as Grant claims because she could've swore more substance lied in her glass instead of the little amount landing on her.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Oh, great, fucking great. Good job, lady, you ruined my fucking shirt,” a deep, gravel voice came from above and that's when Elizabeth realizes where the rest of the alcohol went. She's petrified as the voice continues on.

“Pretty sure you're fucking stupid since you didn't see me coming from over there,” the gravel continues, the rasp sending fear and guilt and shame swirling in her abdomen. Embarrassed, she sets the glass to the floor and tries to find her voice.

“Hey man, what the fuck is wrong with you?” A very familiar voice comes into play. Grant is there to save the day as he helps Elizabeth to her feet. He checks quickly if she's hurt as he pivots and turns his attention to the source of the rasp.

“Me? Your stupid ass woman here can't watch where the hell she's going,” he clarifies, a brooding anger causing the deepness to spike in sharpness. She doesn't know who the man is, but she is positive she's hiding behind Grant for a reason.

“Because she  _ can't _ fucking see, asshole!”

Grant's voice echoes in the bar because it's finally quieted down to the point of where everyone turned their attention. Being so concerned with the anger inside of the gravel, Elizabeth didn't even notice how everyone stopped their conversations to observe the ongoing conflict.

“She’s blind, that's why she has a cane. To make sure that this kind of shit doesn't happen. What about you? Weren't you paying attention at all so your giant ass couldn't have dropped her?”

“That's enough, Grant. He didn't know,” Roman is moving from his place behind the counter as he goes and steps in between the two seething men. Turning to the man opposite of Grant, he speaks calmly.

“Dean… I think it's best if you leave.”

And it's such a slap in the face that Dean almost reaches up to touch his cheek from the sting. He blinks back and forth, to the woman, to the miniature version of Seth Rollins, and then back to Roman. Swallowing his pride with every ounce of strength he has in him, Dean nods and takes a step backwards, ignoring the fast warming stickiness connecting his chest and shirt. It's gone from crisp white to a murky light brown and he's suddenly feeling more like an ass as the seconds pass.

“I'll take an uber home,” is all that's left and Elizabeth could practically feel the shame oozing off him as he passes her with heavy footsteps and a small push of wind. She turns towards what she hears of him leaving, the slightest swivel of the door tipping her off that the man named Dean has left the building.

“What a jackass,” is what Grant mutters loud enough for everyone to begin their own gossip again. The loudness returns after a while and her hand is squeezed to gain her attention. “Are you okay, princess? Did he hurt you? Why weren't you at the table with the girls?”

“I… I wanted another drink. So I thought I'd get it myself.”

“I would've done it for you if you would've waited. Then we wouldn't have had that mess just now. Remember, I don't mind giving you special treatment.”

That line should make any woman in her right mind swoon, but it doesn't make Elizabeth do so. She's puzzled, but even if she can't see anything, she knows how to keep her expression impassive. No emotion resides on her features as she smiles emptily, with knowledge of how Grant won't be able to catch onto how empty the smile truly is. Special treatment is great, yes, but not when you would like to be normal again. Nothing about this feels normal, her distress deep in her stomach, the thrill dawning on her of how actual emotion went through her veins when she's been scolded. It's not that she enjoyed it, because who likes being scared, but it's that for once, she wasn't discriminated against. She was given the same treatment.

_ What a jackass. _

“What a human,” she whispers to herself.


	3. confrontations and lies

_ The grass is surely greener on the other side. _

_ The hill took ages to climb up, but in order to reach base, remaining low aided to their method in maintaining stealth and safety. His suit is heavy on his body, weapons strapped down to areas underneath his clothing in case things went awry. Watching as someone went up into pieces followed by blood splatter did this kind of thing to a man. It kept a man on edge with a razor blade strapped down to his ankle, sheathed away in a thin protector. It kept a man attempting to guess where the enemy would attack from, where they'd try to gain the upper hand by displaying disrespect to a simple comprehension of boundaries. It kept a man in charge take heed of the numbers left after every run-in, counting and mourning for minutes on end the casualties removed from the unit. _

_ “Alright, men, we stay low and keep a look out above. They radioed in that they caught aircrafts planning to drop bombs. Whatever happens out there, it's been an honor serving with all of you.” It's a rasp that knows this line of work better than anyone else. It's a rasp who's been here for over ten years, repeating the same speech he once said in a shaky gravel. Despite the number of times, it's never lost its meaning. He knows this. The recruits know this. They're aware he means it with every fiber constructing his being. _

_ Crawling through grass with the weight of the planet sitting atop your shoulders, however, never gets any easier. It's crushing and it seeks to meld you to the warming soil of the earth, but as pleasant and tempting as it sounds, it's not the route to follow. It's not the route Dean follows as he breathes so clearly he's wondering how the others continue on without picking up his audio. His muscles shake in wavering fatigue, but he finds strength in prospering alongside Sami. A turn of his head is returned as if they've been both thinking the same thing, mutual smiles carrying them further through the rubble. Sami’s face is lined with soot and he appears as if he's been down a chimney, but the respect comes in the actual knowledge of what he's been through. Dean doesn't comment on it enough. He's not sure if he's ever commented on it. _

_ It's a distant thought, traveling to the outskirts of his mind when the sound of a plane sharply tears the sky apart, right down the middle. _

_ “Planes!” _

_ It's a blur, the scurrying of men running and bleeding, crimson coming out in gas clouds as others manage to make it across the green field. Cowards turn around, fall down the hill without grace for multiple bones to be broken. The soil pops out of the ground in tough patches of grass, dirt collecting into the air with the aiding of flame and smoke. It doesn't get any easier for Dean to maneuver, the difficulty increasing as he runs and refuses to glance to the sky since he's done so before, and the fear left him paralyzed to the point of where Sami had to drag him out. _

_ Fear still manages to petrify him when he glances at Sami on the ground, his leg completely gone from the knee. _

_ “I'm gonna get you out of here.” Dean scrambles to the floor and braces Sami to his back and then from there, his legs want to give out in pure exhaustion. He doesn't collapse, running through the mayhem being produced as he yells to try and keep Sami awake. _

_ When he falls, it's because of tripping over a lifeless body, too mutilated to identify. Dean doesn't flinch at the sight, tilting his cranium in a moment of honor, and then his attention hits back to Sami. A bomb lands too close and he feels the heat of it target his sweating form, a crisp cry coating the air. Regaining his bearings he stumbles backwards as another falls, and then another, and then to Sami. _

_ “Callihan!” _

Shooting up from the sticky mattress underneath his spine, Dean lets out spurts of heavy breathing. There's loud knocking on his door being done, booming as the frame shakes in apprehension. Running a large hand down his face, he stares to the side of him, right at the alarm clock.

“Six in the morning, fucking great,” he groans as he scratches the back of his head, lifting the blanket from his form. The tile is cold on his bare feet as he gingerly strolls over to the door, unlocking and opening it to reveal the reason for the bomb-like-sounding-knock.

“Don't you ever sleep?” Dean asks as he furrows his eyebrows at the sight of Roman, who pushes his way into the apartment. Dean closes the door with a gentle push, his eyes adjusting to the low, cool light of the area. He reacquaints himself with his bed as he sits onto the edge, watching as Roman takes a seat in a chair across.

“What the hell was that yesterday?” He sternly asks as he stares daggers into Dean. Still confused with a groggy haze of sleep coating features and mentality, Dean offers a shrug.

“Sometimes you just gotta smoke,” he responds.

“You know that's not what I meant. The girl your dumbass dropped on the floor?” And then it hit Dean like a ton of bricks. He had to stop himself from cringing, his recent low causing him to look down at his feet in embarrassment.

“Oh.  _ That _ .”

“Yeah,  _ that _ . Tell me, do you try to look like a jackass every chance you get, or is it just an innate ability?” Roman crosses his arms against his chest as he keeps his scowl permanently on, lips and eyebrows etching an expression of disappointment and anger rolled into one.

“I didn't know she was blind. I was walking back in, turn for a second to look at something, and suddenly, I'm drenched in whiskey and there's a woman on the floor.”

“Sounds like a typical night for Dean Ambrose to me,” Roman scoffs, zero empathy in his voice.

“That's not funny. Do you really think I'm that much of an asshole to purposely drop a blind lady?” Irritation is beginning to seep in his tone as he stares and matches the look Roman gives him.

“No, no, no, I didn't say that,” He shakes his head as he tries to clarify.

“Isn't that what you're saying? Why the fuck else would you be here? Oh, Dean fucked up again, better go scold him like he's a goddamn five year old,” Dean replies as he stands to his feet.

“I’m here because this keeps happening. I know you didn't mean to drop her, but you don't mean to do a lot of things. Everywhere you go, Dean,  _ I  _ have to apologize for your behavior.” Unable to back down into his seat, Roman slowly rises to his shoes as he matches the glare in Dean's eyes. They're basically neck in neck, neither wanting to give way for the sake of their friendship and pride.

“So it's my fault that shit keeps happening? Like I'm some fucking bad luck charm? Newsflash, Rome, I didn't want to go to your shitty bar.” He's already walking to the door as Roman grabs his shoulder.

“Uh-uh, you're not blowing this off. Things keep happening to you because you let them happen to you. This, all of this, your 'shitty life’, you make no effort to change. You never did when you got home and almost choked my own fucking mother, you never did when that doctor told you you had PTSD, you never did when you drove my insurance through the roof hitting Seth's car, and you're certainly not going to change after you berated my cousin who can't even fucking see. I'm here because I'm sick of you being a piece of shit and acting like it's okay just because you can't get your head out of your ass.”

Dean blinks as he takes it all in, his head bowing slightly in the sudden silence coming between them. Distress melts away the anger in Roman's features, softening eyebrows becoming unfurrowed as he tries to place a hand onto Dean's shoulder. Instantaneously, Dean steps back and hits Roman's before the contact can be initiated. Looking forward, cerulean eyes study Roman and then, they're empty of emotion, devoid of feeling.

“Get out,” he whispers.

It's not loud enough to echo and have other tenants worry, but it surely causes Roman to falter.

“I… okay… but, this was on your door. I was gonna hide it, but…” Reaching into his pocket, he removes a crumpled piece of paper and drops the ball on Dean's bed. Dean's lips are pressed into a thin line and Roman can't find it in him to apologize, but he's sorry, and he's certain of this as he walks away from Dean, through the living room, and out the door.

Unraveling the paper ball, Dean suspires this heavy gust of air, the red lettering of “EVICTION NOTICE” turning his world further upside down.

* * *

 

“You haven't touched your ice cream,” Grant says as he seats himself into the cushion next to Elizabeth.

“I was thinking. And, I was afraid I might accidentally stick my hand in it by trying to reach for it.” Chuckling, Grant got the bowl himself and handed it over, tucking strands behind her ear. It's a signature move, constantly having to ensure she's well kept.

“Good thing you didn't. Always here to help you so you won't fall.” Grant takes the opportunity to bring her closer into his body, her legs draping over his lap. His arm wraps around the small of her back and his hand reaches to cup the curve of her hip.

“So… why didn't you tell me I was keeping you from your job?” An uneasiness fills the air as Grant shifts uncomfortably.

“You were so excited when you got here. I didn't want to make things worse than they already are. How'd you find out?” He counters, already ensuring to pet her hair.

“What do you mean by worse? Your boss called earlier telling me to tell you that you better get there soon or you're fired.” She quirks an eyebrow, beginning to scoot out of the embrace he's desperately trying to hold onto. Frustration is already in his chest as he stares at her.

“You’re already going through a lot, I didn't want you to get here and then be all alone as I go to work in some stupid gym.”

“I've been blind for a year, most of which I've spent without you, I can handle my own and you gone for a couple hours of the day,” she huffs as she moves to stand to her feet, but ends up stumbling to where her back is about to hit the floor. The falling sensation leaves her a bit breathless, but it doesn't last too long for her to determine if it scared her or not. Grant’s arms are around her, holding her close as he helps her stand up properly, the bowl an abandoned thing sitting on the couch.

“You see? I'm there to catch you when you're falling. I'm there for you whenever you need me. Imagine something worse happens when I'm gone. What then? Huh?” He asks, hands coming to his hips. Her eyes have nowhere to look, dead orbs staring randomly in front of her. They used to be a beautiful, dark blue almost hindering royal.

“I… I don't know. I'd get hurt, I know I would. I just wish I didn't feel so useless, you know what I mean? Every second I have someone around to help me get in and out of my clothes, to make sure I don't have them inside out, to make sure I have a matching pair of shoes, to make sure I don't walk on the street and get run over… it's not fair. I feel like a baby.” The pout forming on her lips is one that has Grant kiss them apologetically.

“You're my baby, to me. I'm there to protect you. I know it's not fair, but life took you through some bad times. Is it my fault that the car crash took away your eyesight?” His hands claim her arms gently, running them back and forth along her skin.

“No…”

“Is it fair to me to act like it did when all I'm trying to do is help?”

“No…”

“You can't do the things you used to anymore. Life took it away for a reason. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe it was to bring you and I closer together. I mean, living in Chicago away from me must've been hard, right?” His fingers tuck under her chin, thumb stroking her cheek.

“It was. After the accident, I felt like I needed you more than ever.”

“And so you saved money, surprised me, and now you live here. Aren't you proud of yourself for making it this far for us to be together? To be closer to your family?”

“Yeah… I am,” she smiles towards Grant as she has her hands over his.

“Life's not unfair, then, princess. It took away and gave you something in return. Proximity. Why fight it?” Reaching his head down, he captures her lips, the buzz of his words still tingling on her mouth. Her arms wrap around his neck, eyelids slipping closed since she doesn't need to see for any of the intimacy that comes with a relationship. The motion heightens her senses, heart thudding faster as they settle back down to the couch. It might be the moment things finally become heated again, but a ringing sound at the side of the two breaks her from her hopes.

The screen flashes with Roman's picture and Grant answers the phone, cautiously sitting Elizabeth to the side as he deviates from the couch.

“I have to take this, Liz. Private call.” Carting to the bedroom, he closes the door and raises the phone to his ear.

“Hey, I was wondering when you were going to call.”

“I was up early today to take care of something and business happened to be booming today. I didn't look at my phone 'til I got home,” he truthfully says over the line.

“Not a problem, man. Did you think about what I sent?”

“I don't know, Grant. She's family, but I'm really busy and trying to take care of her doesn't seem like it'd be on the cards. Especially in a bar,” Roman replies.

“It'd be easy. I'm supposed to be there from nine in the morning to six in the afternoon on weekdays. I think a bar would be more alive late in the night and even less on a weekday,” Grant attempts to convince.

“That doesn't guarantee a drunk not trying to take advantage of her or trying to put a roofie in her drink.” It's a bitter thing to say, but it's the truth, and sugarcoating it would lead to bad happenings he doesn't have time for.

“It doesn't guarantee any other woman facing the same treatment anyway. Come on, Roman. I don't have anyone else to turn to. I thought I could bring her to the gym with me, but you know Seth wouldn't be up for some babysitting gig. He'd want all of us working.” Grant is pacing back and forth.

“It’s not babysitting. She's blind, not a child.”

“But if something happens to her, all of New Jersey will have my head and I'll look like the asshole.”

“That sentence alone makes you sound like an asshole. But, why would all of New Jersey have your head?”

“Because all of your family lives here! Yet, none of them want to help out and take care of her. So who's the real asshole here?” There's a brief pause on the other side before Roman sighs outwardly.

“I mean, I could get some security around here. Ensure things stay safe, no fights break out, and catch if anyone is trying to roofie any women when I'm not looking…”

“Like a bouncer?”

“Yeah, like a bouncer. Except, he won't be carrying around a list asking people for their names like Jericho’s club.”

“That sounds great! Just don't get a weirdo or anything like that. Make sure they're qualified.”

“Actually, I already have someone in mind. The guy has about ten years of military experience and has been out of work for a year. He'll be evicted if he doesn't pay his rent in a month, so it's basically a guarantee that he'll take the job with very little persuasion.” Roman runs a hand over his face on the other side, not comprehending how the hell he's going to be able to get Dean to agree to this, even after their argument in the morning.

“Sounds like a good match to me. I'll bring Elizabeth over tomorrow at around eight. Please try to get the guy to agree fast.”

“I'll do it. Trust me.”

“Thanks, Roman. I gotta go. Lady’s waiting for me on the couch.” And then the call ends and Roman is sitting exasperated on the leather couch. Jimmy approaches slowly, sinking down next to him.

“Rough day?”

“You have no idea. Don't know what the hell I'm going to do or how the hell I'm going to convince Dean to be security at the bar.” Jimmy blinks and then laughs a bit dumbfounded as he shakes his head.

“What's so funny?”

“Why on Earth are you getting security for the bar and why does it have to be Dean?”

“Because it's an elaborate rouse for someone to watch Elizabeth while Grant goes to work, with some benefits, and, it would give Dean a steady job so he doesn't get kicked out of his apartment. That's why.”

“Yo, if Dean finds out you're doing this for him to play babysitter and try to give him a pity job, he's not going to be happy.”

Standing from the couch, Roman shakes his head and points a finger at Jimmy.

“That's why he's not going to find out.”


	4. a job offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, alright, things are gingerly beginning to pick up on feedback and I'm excited to continue on. I've always had a good understanding of where I want to take this, but never of what I want to happen in between, so we're free falling. Enjoy.

The sun's rising and shedding light into the apartment. Left to the bed, a burgundy curtain tints the color of the sunlight. Its warm rays eventually reach Dean’s frame, his hands in his hair tangled in the mess of curls as he inhales slowly. Black rings reside under his eyes from the lack of sleep. It hasn't been this bad in a long time. The dreams were starting to haunt him again. The ability to discern between reality and hallucination walked the fine line between the two. The smallest sounds were setting him off. He could jump. He would spin fast as if he were about to be attacked. A constant breath followed him through his chores and his alertness increased tenfold. Roman's usual knocking didn't bother him like it did yesterday. Instead of getting better, Dean was getting worse. He couldn't tell anyone. If he did, he'd just have another reason for everyone to remind him of how low he's become.

It's necessary to pop his neck as he stands from the bed because he's been in a sitting position for so long. Joints crack in his spine to follow suit, a long look in the mirror taken when he reaches the glass.

The splitting image in his reflection doesn't register on his mind. He almost doesn't want to recognize who stands there with disheveled locks and bloodshot eyes. Staring down the length of his body, Dean finds sweats hanging low on his hips, socks adorning his feet. Trailing back the length of his abdomen, he finds scars. A soldier’s scars. Fingertips tap curiously about the informalities. A particular one rests under his nipple. The tip of his index finger follows its path and as he stares at it in the mirror, he recalls the day he had it become a part of him after a knife waved at him and pierced his skin. The pain circles, and in seconds, Dean's hand is shaking as he removes it a distance. It hurts to keep attempting to touch and relive. His jaw flexes as he meets his gaze in the mirror, the horrors resting deep in his eyes, too many to possibly count. He wishes he couldn't see everything in those eyes, wishes that the cerulean would keep quiet about the terrors lurking in his mind. It's a peasant's wish. He's not able to escape the hope, but no one is. Hopes are too easy to get up and the subconscious does it inherently.

Emitting a shaky exhale, Dean deems it as enough torture on his side when he turns from the mirror. His skeleton almost leaps out of his skin when the alarm clock goes off and he protests with his body’s urge to dive behind the mattress. Gingerly, his legs carry him to the nightstand and he turns the alarm off. He's aware he's completely out of it. Not so much aware to notice how he takes steps back and collides with the cold exterior of the wall. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he hears a knock at the door lacking authority. He surmises it to be Roman, but he doesn't make any movement from the wall. Dean is  _ not  _ going out there until he gets his vision back in shape. Standing in front of Roman and exhibiting signs would call for a ride to the hospital. It's something he can't afford. Something he has no time for. Peeling himself from the wall, Dean travels through the living room and then opens the door. It's been unlocked since yesterday, but the threat of someone coming in during the night seemed secure.

“Hey, man—woah. What happened to you? You look like you've been drinking all night.” The concern etches itself on Roman's features as he examines Dean. The dark circles don't catch his attention as much as the redness in his eyes does. There isn't much of a response as Dean holds the door open further. He looks almost lifeless. Dean moves to his couch and sits down, rubbing his right eye with a closed fist. Slowly, Roman ceases to stand at the doorway, closing it after he's inside. He seats himself next to Dean and stares a little longer.

“I wasn't drinking if that's what you’re thinking. Just didn't get that much sleep. You can stop looking at me like I have two heads.” Guilty as charged, Roman turns away and runs a hand to the back of his neck. His hair is tied back in a low ponytail, but he nods his comprehension as he chooses to gaze at the coffee table in front of them. “Listen, about yesterday… I said a lot of shit I didn't mean.”

“Let's skip the apology, yeah? I don't need to hear you're sorry. You didn't do anything except call me out. Let's forget it,” Dean dismisses. He's staring forward in the same direction Roman is, but he's not focusing on anything. To him, it's empty space as his thoughts begin to roam from one point to the next. There isn't an official place he's going, but it's like he's staring at a map. He's in so many places at once, it's not fair to think about one.

It's not fair to label it as one topic. “Look, I need some help down at the bar. The guys and I were thinking that security might be a good idea. I can't think of anyone who'd be better for the job.” Turning his head, Roman is finally facing Dean again. He's not surprised when a bitter laugh comes into fruition. A hand comes up for his fingers to mindlessly tap along his collarbone. It's one of those actions the body involuntarily produced.

“I can probably think of hundreds of people who'd be better for the job. This wouldn't have to do with me getting evicted, would it?” His head faces Roman as he lifts a knowing eyebrow. Roman, in turn, rolls his eyes as he shakes strands from blocking his line of visage. “No, I was going to ask you yesterday after I chewed your ass out. I decided it was a bad time since the sign hanging off your door would've made it look bad. Then I thought, to hell with it cause we really need security. The waitresses are these frail things and Jimmy and Jey will just be partying. It's an easy gig. You get paid from nine to six on weekdays and all you have to do is make sure no fights break out and no one gets hurt.” He hopes Dean can't see through his lies. He did tell him most of the truth, just not everything.

In an attempt at believing Roman, Dean's trying to find some kind of tell in Roman's eyes. There's nothing obscure about the firm gaze, but he's been wrong before. His poor judgment as a soldier did cost him some lives. Even then, if Roman's lying about the eviction thing, would it really hurt to say yes to a job that would guarantee his living space until he figured out what he was going to do with the rest of his life? “I'll think about it.”

Relief floods through Roman's system as he stands to his feet and is already moving towards the door. “Think fast. Be there at 8:45 and the job’s yours, no questions asked.” Closing the door after he's out of the apartment, Roman leans backfirst into the door as his head tilts back. He feels like he could breathe again as he runs a hand down his face. It's a bad thing to lie to Dean, or anyone for that matter, but sometimes it's what's necessary.

* * *

 

Tapping her fingers on the bar’s counter, Elizabeth utilizes her free hand to raise her glass of water to her lips. Her lips capture the straw’s circumference as she hears Grant take off from the establishment. He told her Roman would be the one in charge of everything regarding her safety and it did bring a sense of security to her. Roman being the one to look after her sounded like nothing could bring her real harm. After the talk they had last night, she did feel better about her current circumstances, but nothing that'd last too long. In her condition, it's crucial she receives extra help, but anyone who's known to be independent squirms when that independence is ripped away. When someone tells you that you can't do something, it of course makes you want to do it more. It's her current sentiment as she views solely darkness from now on. She'll never know if there's a gleam to her eyes or if there's a twinkle in the brighter shade the incident left her with. She'll never be privy to whether or not her hair color complements her outfit or if it's cloudy enough for a walk. These humane decisions have been taken from her and she must rely on what others say to dictate the choices of these decisions.

If that doesn't frustrate the most sanest person alive, then what could possibly hinder one's stability?

Setting down the water, she swivels slightly in her chair, testing the upholstery's cushion. The padding already feels a lot better than the couch at home and that's an observation she doesn't need eyesight for.

“They feel nice don't they?” The deep timbre of Roman's voice melts gently in her ears and a smile breaks through across her lips. Her hands clasp in front of her, putting a halt to the incessant tapping. Sliding fingertips with her nails, she realizes the polish has chipped away since her last visit to the nail salon where she told them any shade of vermillion. “They really do. Did you order the seats online or something?”

His gaze rests on her eyes, not really having been this up, close, and personal with the blind’s orbs. He expected there to be some kind of abnormality, but they didn't have any. The most haunting thing about them had to be how they resembled marbles with clouds encased inside. Her pupil didn't bear pitch blackness, faded to gray because of the wall of cloud in front it. It toned down the true colors and anyone could mistake her for being a normal person. Which seemed like a weird thing to observe because he didn't think of her as less of a person. Tapping at her glasses, Roman decides she's going to need them so no one tries and takes advantage of her. He raises them to her face, and in response, a gust of air leaves from between her lips. Elizabeth blinks as if she'll be able to see once she opens her eyes. She wants to remove the dark sunglasses, but she knows it's better for them to be on.

Roman catches the sigh and there's something familiar about it. It's the kind of sigh with its signature sound and depth of exhale for you to recognize it. It must be Roman’s ears playing tricks on him because he couldn't have been able to hear that and distinguish whom it came from. “I have a buddy named AJ down in Howell who put them together for me. I painted them when they got here.”  Taking another drink of water, Elizabeth leans back slightly and lets her foot tap at the ring. She feels small in comparison to the stool’s size, but it suits the bar’s atmosphere she's trying to imagine. “Well, AJ did a phenomenal job.” Roman lets out an immediate laugh after as he begins to clean out various glasses with a towel.

“You have no idea.”

His amused facade falls short when he turns his attention to someone walking in. The door swings open, allowing anyone inside, but since Roman technically hasn't opened the bar yet, he already knows who it is before he could look to the source’s face. Heavy boots hit the wooden floor and they're so distinct and familiar, Elizabeth already knows who it is, too. Her first instinct is to cower away, but she doesn't make sudden movements, merely accomodating her head in the direction of sound. The man's cologne radiates and permeates enough for her to tag a scent to his being. These are quite possibly the sole traits she'll get out of him when it comes to physiognomy. Smell and sound, and slight touch. She could tell by when she walked into him that he didn't stand at average height as Grant did.

“You're here. I really thought you were going to think otherwise,” Roman says as he reaches to grab the official items. He hands Dean a black shirt of dri-fit material and a taser he got from a cop he knows downtown. Come to think of it, Roman knew a lot of people. “You know, I was gonna blow it off, but how could I miss out on this sweet Walmart shirt?”

Shaking his head, Roman is about to reply when a loud ring is removing him from the situation. Checking the caller ID, he clears his throat and begins to walk from behind the bar. “I'll be right back. Gotta take this.” Walking to the back, Roman’s out of sight and it leaves Dean to take in the surroundings a bit more. Looking around, his gaze lands on someone he thought looked familiar. He could easily discern her blindness now that she's wearing a pair of sunglasses, or whatever the hell the medical term is for those.

“You're staring at me.”

Dean blinks a few times as he looks away and bites at the inside of his cheek. “Thought you were blind.”

“I am, but you went quiet. So either you were staring at me, or you were looking at something else.” Leaning onto the counter, Dean tries to get a better look now that he's been caught. Her fair skin is almost milky, cheeks tinted slightly in crimson. The natural blush leaves him gazing, but he tenses his jaw meticulously. She's rather… delicate. Almost like a porcelain doll. “How'd you know I didn't leave?” The new positioning has her head turn towards him. He figures it's because he's closer and the sound of his voice gave her the indication. “Because your boots are loud.”

Slowly, his mouth crooks into this haphazard smile. Directing his gaze down to the counter, he continues. “How’d you know I was wearing boots?” Crossing her arms to her chest, a smile rests on her lips the very same. She doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling back. “Didn't take you for a heel kind of guy.” This time, Dean laughs. It's a real laugh, too. It's free of bitterness and free of irony and most importantly, it's free of pain. The genuine laugh doesn't dawn on him until he stops to think for a second.

“You remember me, don't you?” The smile once on his lips begins to fade as he tries to gain something from her expression. He doesn't get anything, no certain emotions written in her expression that barely shifts. “I do. Dean, right?” Nodding slowly, Dean almost forgets she can't see this.

He doesn't say anything about it, however, his moment of embarrassment not to be pointed out. “Right. I uh… I'm… I'm sorry about the other day. I really didn't know.” Resting a hand to her cheek, she shrugs this gentle thing, the lack of muscles in her shoulders proving her delicacy further. “It's in the past. I shouldn't have been out of my seat without my boyfriend anyway.” She's surprised when she hears a scoff like noise come from Dean.

“Says who? Him? Nah, don't blame yourself. It's on me, but, if you want to leave it in the past, I'm fine with that.” Coming off the counter, Dean is already tucking the taser where it needs to be clipped on his jeans. “Alright… I'm Elizabeth by the way. Elizabeth Amate.” Her hand is brought forward at a short distance where she assumes Dean to be and he takes the much smaller one into his.

“Dean Ambrose. Roman over there hired me as security. Might see you around here more often,” he says. There's a satisfactory silence once their hands disconnect. Slowly, Dean clears his throat and begins to walk away. “I'm gonna go change.”

Well… That went rather smooth.


	5. run further

_ The car is going about eighty on the highway. The pearlescent finish of the sides alter from a navy blue to the state of a sky pigmentation. When the sunlight caresses its structure, the color shifts. It's dramatic. It's considered gaudy by many. To Elizabeth and her mother, it's the car to die for. The leather seats have their skin cling, but never uncomfortably. They're devoid of flesh sticking to leather from the product of sweat since the air flows evenly throughout the vehicle. No use comes from utilizing a back seat, so two rest as the sole ones. They've adjusted their seats, as well, neither of them too small to handle the car’s powerful engine. The camaro roars to life as the gas pedal is taken further advantage of, asphalt drowning out the sound of cars unable to pass. The thrill manifests itself in Elizabeth’s bones, natural adrenaline filling her lungs instead of fresh oxygen. With how things are going, fresh oxygen isn't going to make the cut. She's taking in other things in order to push forward through her high. Driving at breakneck speed isn't what appeases her adrenaline rush, but it surely calms it. It settles, sits, and waits without a simmer or bubble in her stomach. There's a glint in her eye, she can see it. _

_ The mirror allows her to examine the way the glint lucidly sparkles and dances with the remnants of sunlight. It's late enough for it to be going down, leaving the two women within the car with less of a nuisance to worry about. Directing their gazes in a manner of inappropriate giggling and such, it's when they finally see the car to the right of them losing control of the wheel. It's a blur when it crashes into the side of the beautiful camaro hindering them off the road. Elizabeth quickly tries to turn the wheel out of panic. Out of fear. As a chain reaction, the car flips and it's so slow for Elizabeth, she doesn't realize that her mother’s screaming. She stares at her mother in awe. Her hair’s gray, cut short, and it's hanging since they're currently upside down. With the way everything is winding, there's no sound to pierce Elizabeth’s eardrums. She should be panicking, instilled with fear to the point of joining in on silent, slow screams. Her voice stays silent as they reach their final flip, the most impactful of them all. Her head jerks violently as it breaks the barrier of snail pace and it hits metal roughly from the door right on her temple. _

_ And then, it's lights out. _

“Baby, you okay? You look spaced out there.” Grant's voice is what brings Elizabeth back to Earth. She sees nothing but darkness once more as a sigh is heaved. She may not have been able to distinguish between colors very well in memory, but the last one of vision is the one that stuck to her mind. It's possibly because it's one of the more traumatic memories. “I'm fine. Did you have a good day at work?”

A change in the subject would refresh her mind from straying to the depths of trauma. Being that far gone would have her plummet down a rabbit’s hole, unable to seek freedom. Well, it's not like she had much of it now. “Ugh, it was the worst. Seth had me cleaning for missing so much. I guess it's fair, but I smell like sweat and bleach. It's not a good combination, so I'll stay away when we get home until I could shower.” They were currently on the road from Roman's. The bar didn't become alive until after five and so Elizabeth assumed Roman didn't have a hard time watching her. She became bored after a few hours, not having much people to talk to beside the few drunks who thought her glasses were a fashion statement. Surprisingly, Dean shooed them away when vicinity was breached too closely.

“My day wasn't as eventful. A couple of guys who had too many tried to come onto me at most.” She chews on her lower lip when she feels the car go into park, a nice stop. They couldn't have been home just yet, so for sure, they were at a red light. “What the hell, did Roman get rid of them?” Grant’s knuckles encase his steering wheel. A bone white pigment emnates as he thinks about what Seth said. For some reason, he isn't concerned with how Elizabeth may have been hurt. He's more so upset by the fact that Seth may have been right.

“He didn't, his security guard did. Was very quick and I heard them leave without a struggle. You're not going to believe who the guard is, though. It's the guy that—” her voice isn't loud enough to overshadow the loud horn disrupting her speech. The light turned green so apparently, Grant had been looking at Elizabeth and hadn't noticed. Sticking his head out the window, Grant flips the bird to the guy behind. Immediately, Grant recognizes who's behind the wheel. Cursing to himself silently, he picks up on speed and creates distance between he and the other driver. Almost immediately, Elizabeth feels her anxiety rise.

She's counting to ten in her head as her eyelids close shut. The car's speed is already beginning to trigger an attack and if she doesn't grab ahold of something  _ and _ herself, she's going to be heaving inhales before she could even exhale. Reaching her hand up, she grasps onto the handle above as she tries to calm her nerves sporadically being attacked.

Grant fails to notice, but he does ease his foot off the acceleration once he feels there's been enough of a gap made. “Can you believe that the asshole who dropped you the other day was driving behind us? Fucking prick even has to be a jackass on the road.” Tapping at his steering wheel, he glances at Elizabeth who's managed to calm herself down. One hand removes itself from the wheel and takes hers into it. “You alright there? You look a little flushed.”

Maybe telling Grant about the security guard wasn't a good idea.

* * *

 

”Grab a mop. You're late,” Roman’s voice booms in the bar’s atmosphere. There's this echo he still has to rectify, but he's in no hurry since he's currently irritated by the fact that Jimmy and Jey made a heaping mess alcohol across the wood. “I'm late by two minutes. Cut me some slack, there was a lot of traffic. If you wanted me to clean, you could've just asked.” The rasp of Dean's voice responds as he begins to walk towards the mop within the yellow bucket. The day before had been an easy one. He could continue working for Roman if the money would be good at the end of the week. Really, Dean has nowhere else to go, but he does like to think that he'd go elsewhere if the pay is shit. Considering who Roman is, Dean has a feeling it won't be. However, being late by two minutes is a lame excuse for having someone clean sticky liquor off the floor.

As Dean walks, there's a velcro sound to the bottom of his boots. Each step has the audio intensify and he knows he's stepped in it already. “What the fuck, Roman, did you take a shower in beer after I left last night?” The statement actually has a nice ring to it. It's one that has a small, feminine laugh come into fruition. Dean smiles warmly when he views Elizabeth sitting at the stool. He's not sure of why she's there again, but he's not going to press on questions since he doesn't mind her company. “Let's just say the Usos can't be trusted with alcohol because they'd probably use it to try putting out a fire.” There's still clear irritation in Roman's voice as he goes to the back. Dean knows it's to gather up cleaning supplies to ensure the sticky pattern doesn't throw off customers. Despite opening at nine, though, business doesn't really pick up until around ten or eleven. At least that's the mental note Dean's created after yesterday’s shift.

“I haven't mopped floors like this since I was in my twenties.” It's a grumble and it's obviously meant for himself. It's an odd thing to say since his twenties weren't that long ago, but he does feel a lot older than he really is. “I haven't cleaned in general in a year.” Elizabeth of course took this as a conversation starter. She merely took the bait. However, Dean wants to tell her that it's not what he intended to do. Maybe it's the pinesol fumes, but instead of clarifying his misconception, he nears her, taking the rolling bucket with him.

The squeaks combining with the audible wheels rolling do reach Elizabeth's absolute threshold and bury there, but she doesn't flinch. She welcomes the cacophony of noises as Dean approaches. He leisurely leans against the counter with an elbow setting upon its top. “Wanna switch me places? You gain experience while I sit around on this stool and drink whiskey.” She shakes her head in humor as another laugh trickles into the air. If Dean had to describe it, he'd compare it to the way hummingbirds flutter. They're light. They're fast. Her laugh is about the same. Yet, he wants for it to last longer because he feels as if she doesn't get to laugh that long or often for that matter. “I'd help you if I could. I haven't been able to clean or do much of anything in a year because that's when I became blind.” That's the kind of line to make the coldest men wince. He doesn't though as he carefully chooses his words. Which she should be honored by because he doesn't use the same amount of caution with anyone else.

“Elizabeth, you're blind, not dead. A little cleaning can be done by anyone. Actually, a lot of things can be done by anyone. Believe me, I've seen it. Seen people who thought they were unable find out they were actually able. It's a pretty cool process to hear about. Even more so to witness.” Dunking the mop into the depths of the bucket, Dean uses the handle to ring out excess water that already looks a disgusting muddy gray. “I wouldn't be able to witness that…” There's a hint of noticable sadness in her response and Dean almost wants to kick himself for the way he put that. He didn't actually mean  _ seeing _ it happen. Considering everything, he meant something deeper than that.

“Not literally. I mean, when you could feel their happiness. When you could relate and connect. There's more to witnessing than actually looking. Imagine a man who's been told he wouldn't be able to walk ever again and he takes a few steps. The witnessing comes in experiencing all his trials and tribulations that he had to face. Imagine being there alongside, every step of the way. That's what I meant. I don't know if it makes a whole lot of sense.” Timidly, Dean is having the mop remove from the bucket, a splatter covering shades of his worn boots. Their tatters darken in the added substance. “It does. More than you could know.”

She's tapping at the counter when she hears Dean's boots beginning to lift away. The velcro sound pounds through her eardrums, but she listens intently because she can't believe the temper she heard days before came from the same man. “You said something about mopping in your twenties. How old are you?” She asks, trying to give a face to the figure that wouldn't be on the elder side yet not on the adolescence spectrum. “Thirty-one.” It's a quick response since Dean doesn't want to answer to anything else regarding that time period. The way the wheels squeal already remind him of the hospital gurneys they had to wheel in and out of base. His eyes close when he recalls seeing lifeless bodies being carried back and forth.

“Dean?” That soft voice breaks through his hospital, cracks at the corners to bring him back to reality. He doesn't move as he holds the mop. “Yeah?”

“Call me Liz. Elizabeth makes me feel older. I'm twenty-nine.” She's trying to anticipate his answer as she chews onto her lip. It's a habit she's developed. When nervousness spikes, it's the goto in order to calm.

“Okay… For the record, I don't think the name would make you seem older. You look very… young.” It's the appropriate word, right? Dean doesn't want to say anything regarding appearance since they barely knew one another. Yet, he wants to stare. He wants to gaze. He needs to so he could offer a better word.  _ Young _ isn't the right one. It's too simple. It's almost overdone. He needs to look a little longer to provide a proper word to suffice to what she really deserves.

“Well… I guess it'd be okay if  _ you  _ called me Elizabeth. Letting one person slide wouldn't hurt.” Being blind actually allows Elizabeth different abilities others might neglect. Voices had different dips and shakes, different timbres and trembles to them. Each had its own brilliance whether it be in crescendo or pure noise. She notices the way Dean's gravel dips when he's unsure. He has to be. It's the way he said the word  _ young _ . Smiling to herself, she assumes it's because he's being nice. Or maybe… “Oh,  _ for the record, _ you sound very…  _ Young. _ ”

This makes Dean's ears perk and he knows there's an unsaid understanding. He doesn't say anything more. Just continues mopping as he tries to think of something else other than the way she managed to break through his awful daydream.

This could be the start of a  _ beautiful friendship _ .


	6. orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very excited to see more responses to Oculus! Delving into the realms of the blind has been interesting. I want things to be as accurate as possible. As we go further, more elaboration will unmask itself. Anyways, enjoy as always and drop a review/comment.

The sound system Roman's installing takes most of the day’s time. It's Wednesday, the middle of the week, but the delivery made brought it last night. Dean and AJ are helping with the set up as per his request and it's around twelve in the afternoon when he gets fed up. A groan penetrates the air and Roman is tossing aside a tool that slides across the floor board. Jimmy and Jey are manning the counter for the time being, but the people sitting at the tables are laughing gently in their own worlds. They pay no mind to the three men putting together speakers and a computer. They pay no mind to the woman who's trying to detect any form of noise coming from these three men. Elizabeth gains her own amount of frustration from where she sits, but not because she's immobile. Well, it's part of the reason why. The main focus is trying to catch on their conversations, but others are clouding her perception. Trying to listen to the guys as they collaborate is a task proving itself futile.

“I can't think straight with all these people talking,” Roman grumbles as he tries to lift a piece of the frame to put together. Styles is already placing screws into where they need to be. “Lighten up, man. You're just frustrated that it's taking so long. I honestly thought Dean over here would be having more trouble, but he seems calm.” AJ tilts his head in Dean's direction who is currently fastening his belt. Dean then returns to working, unaware of the two who are watching.

There's this smile to Roman's features as he shakes his head back and forth. “He's used to work with explosives and help with fixing vehicles in the army. He always has to be using his hands or he's smoking or drinking to try and fill the void.” Raising the volume of his voice ever so slightly, AJ is laughing. “That sounds like some therapy bullshit. Are you a psychologist or something, Rome? You can't just analyze your friends like that and think you know about everything they do and the reason they do it.” Considering how near the bar they are, this is what Elizabeth catches. Unaware of Dean's career in the military, it does come a bit of a shock. She tries to make it seem as if she's not listening as her interest goes to her glass. She asks Jimmy for more of the limeade, leaning forward to at least try to halt her eavesdropping. It's not like she means to. It's that Dean is a conundrum she's drawn to. Therefore, learning anything seems second nature.

“It's not that I'm analyzing him. He used to go to a doctor and that's a remark they made. They told him some of the things he should do, but he didn't listen. He never really listens when it's about him. I don't know why.” The final pieces are being held by Styles, who slowly takes a glance over at Dean. “When my grandfather came home from war, he didn't really care about himself. He cared about keeping things safe, but somewhere along the line, it's like he didn't want to be human. He was primarily a soldier. Human came second. Without my grandma around, nothing could really bring the old him back.” Sighing, AJ carries his body towards Roman and shrugs his shoulders.

“I think sometimes people have too much on their shoulders to try functioning normally. Maybe Dean doesn't want to be an ex soldier. Maybe he wants to be a  _ soldier _ . Why? Only God knows why.” It's a lot to think about, but Roman is trying to push this to the back of his mind. Regarding his friend, he'd probably never come close to figuring out the depths of Dean’s distress. He could solely give a helping hand and hope that someday Dean would actually return from the war. His body was here, but his mind surely wasn't. “Fuck, I forgot the power tool we need at my place. I'll have to run and get it.” AJ is putting down the things necessary as Dean comes over.

He's crossing his arms against his chest. “Did my duty, S—Roman… What's next?” He almost called Roman a name he shouldn't have. His sergeant wouldn't have been impressed. “Well, I'm going with AJ to his place really fast to pick up the tool we need. Just stay here and do your job and make sure my cousins don't slack off at the bar.” Clapping a large hand onto Dean's shoulder, both Roman and AJ are moving out the door. Jimmy and Jey await a couple of minutes after the guys have left for them to start moving from behind the counter. They're headed towards the back, but Dean is stopping them.

“Seriously? Roman literally just said for you guys  _ not _ to slack off.” Waving Dean off, Jimmy steps forward and grins with a mouth full of white teeth. “We're just going for a few slushes across the street and we'll be right back. You can handle everything.” Trying to walk away, Dean places a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder as he huffs in irritation.

“What if someone comes in and they want a drink? The waitresses aren't going to distract them with a speaker that's not even finished.” Dean's hard gaze does nothing to hinder neither Jimmy or Jey’s stances. Shrugging off Dean's hand, Jimmy is already moving out the door with his brother. “If they really want a drink, they'll wait for us. Just do your thing, soldier boy.” The last words ring through Dean's ears almost as a condescending insult. He wants nothing more than to follow them out and inform them about how he doesn't appreciate being called something so negative, but Elizabeth is what stops him in his tracks.

“They never listened when we were kids, either. Roman's parents would always tell us it was dangerous to do something, but they'd be hanging off the roof one way or another despite the warning.” Chuckling, she lets her forearms rest on the countertop. Dean looks to her glasses and wonders where her eyes stare in these situations. Where do the pupils point when fazed by outside stimulation? Where do her eyes wander when the conversation should call for direct contact? “Sometimes it's best to follow orders. I don't think they understand when to and when not to.” Seating himself, Dean is across from her stool and she feels his presence. It's body heat, their elbows not far apart from one another. Other men have sat this close, but with Dean, it feels different. The world is on a different axis she cannot fathom nor handle correctly.

She can damn well try. “I don't really think anyone understands that.” This earns Dean's attention, his eyes never leaving from the side of Elizabeth’s face. She doesn't have the average Samoan complexion. It's the ravenous mess of curls tied back that display her relation. “You don't think anyone understands when it's okay to disobey direct orders?” The music begins to filter throughout the bar after one of the waitresses, Peyton, has began the music. She's a nice woman and all, but she's not who Dean is focusing on. The one who clearly notices the change in audio is Elizabeth. The sound drowns out the talk of the few people still occupying tables. But not Dean's voice. They're sitting right next to each other and their vicinity couldn't be disrupted by anything.

“Not exactly. If it has to do with morals, I think they have a battle with themselves internally. Either they follow what's been asked of them or follow what they feel is right. A lot of people, like me, don't know what's right all the time. Maybe it's just me, but I do get confused of when to follow for my own safety and when not to for my own independence.” Her head tilts downwards towards the counter at this. Dean knows there's probably thought swirling in her head about how her “independence” is limited. He doesn't like that. He wants to help for some reason. Her lostness reminds him of… no, he's not going to think deeper into this. “It’s not that black and white. Orders are orders. If we're told to do something, it's for a reason. If you don't agree with that reason or if you feel you have to do something for another reason that happens to contradict, then I think that's when it falls out of place. I think we understand and I think we  _ don't.  _ Everyone’s different.” The food for thought leaves them in a silence for a few moments. Elizabeth’s ears are trying not to follow the rhythm of thought, but instead the rhythm of the music flowing. Sensing Dean has already had enough of this topic, she lightly sways to the beat, recognizing the various riffs.

Her shoulder lightly bumps Dean's, and he can't help but form an expression of admiration. It's nice to see how she copes with her clear distress. “I know this song. Used to listen to it all the time. They played it everywhere at clubs and dances.” She doesn't stop her swaying. It further continues as she sighs with the way the music flows. “It's a classic. In high school, they played it on the radio so much that I memorized a lot of the words.” Ah, high school. He hardly ever thought about those years. Thinking about them now shouldn't have made him as content as it did.

“God, I want to dance. I miss it so much. I haven't in so long.” She slumps her shoulders when the song ends.

Her breath is a suspire, broken in its own right. Dean catches this and he presses his lips firmly together. The next song is an unrecognizable mess of glorified guitars and he doesn't exactly care for it. By the looks of it, neither does she. Standing to his feet, Dean walks from the counter and gets to the unfinished speaker. Not being a technology guy, he somehow manages to play the song from before and slowly, he goes back to Elizabeth. Tapping her shoulder, Dean gains her attention when she shifts her body slightly. She's wearing an emerald long sleeve and a black skirt today. Long legs are covered in black lace, and her shoes are slightly heeled. He hates to be dramatic, even if no one is watching or hearing, but he couldn't think of a better dance partner. Driving the thought out as soon as it came into fruition, he gently takes her hand into his. Confusion immediately etches on her features, but he doesn’t alarm her in the slightest.

“Trust me.”

And she does.

She is directed onto her feet and normally, this would send a fit of bells ringing in her ears. Normally, she'd be troubled with the thought of falling and hurting herself. With Dean's hand in hers, none of those scares radiate through her brain. She lets him guide and follows his steps with faith embedded in every move. At first, it's awkward the way he holds her hand up into the air preparing to lead the two. A small laugh comes from her voice, but she tucks his hand to the small of her back, and initiates for the two to be closer.

“I… I haven't danced in over ten years. I'm a little rusty… fuck, people are watching.” His hand tightens slightly on hers and she realizes it's because of the audience. “I can't see them watching,” she assures quietly as they sway back and forth. It's rather stiff because of Dean's self consciousness. He doesn't like when the focus is on him.

“But they are, and  _ I can _ see them.” His voice is a bit lower this time. He almost sounds ashamed. She doesn't know why this is. He has nothing to be ashamed for. He hasn't failed her in any way. Shaking her head, her hand leaves from his hand to his neck. She gains a better understanding of how tall he is with this action.

“Pretend you can't.”

It's so simple. Too simple. It shouldn't register on Dean's mind the way it does, but tension slowly leaves from his muscles. He catches a glimpse of the shade of her eye color and his nerves begin to calm. Moving back and forth with Elizabeth, he leads better as he keeps his gaze on her. Eventually, the people watching aren't what he's thinking about. Eventually, he can't see them since he's keenly aware of how Elizabeth never misses a step. It's like she trusts him and her body more than she does her failed eyes. He'd been afraid to mess up. Everything else, he's been able to do with the easiest of routes. It's been easy because all his tasks were destruction and not of great skill. Even when he first joined the army, he showed nerves being observed until one day, he got so good he couldn't mess up. However, this, he could mess up on. He hasn't mastered this like he's mastered shooting a gun.

But if it's  _ always _ like this, he wouldn't mind learning further.

The song soon comes to an end much to Elizabeth's dismay. Her smile never fades when she's led back to her seat. It doesn't even fade when Jimmy and Jey re-enter and Dean goes back to manning the door as if nothing happened.

* * *

 

It smells like smoke when Dean gets home. He catches the scent as soon as he's standing outside of the door. Reaching in his pocket for his keys, he quickly opens the door to the sound of a fire alarm. It's beeping loudly and a cloud of smoke comes from the usually untouched kitchen. Jimmy Jacobs emerges from the smoke coughing as he shakes his head. Dean can't believe his eyes as he tries to blink away the collecting fog in the room.

“I don't think that stove's been touched in ages. When I got it to work, it blew fire at me,” Jimmy explains as he gets a good look at Dean who's still staring at him. “I let myself in. Had a spare key.” He hoped that eased some of the confusion as he steps forward and sticks out his right hand for Dean to shake. There's a little more staring being done and Dean doesn't acknowledge the hand as he keeps his gaze.

Jimmy stands there a bit frozen, his hand coming back to his body as he sighs outwardly. He places his hands on his hips as he tries to get some kind of reaction from Dean. “I know it's been a while, but I thought I'd drop in. I know I left without saying anything, but you've got to know I was in a bad place. I kept seeing things since we came back. Bad things.” There's more silence between them as the smoke begins to clear out. Jimmy looks a lot different than when Dean last saw him. Before, Jacobs had been this frail thing, the product of seeing the worst of the war. Now, he looked healthy. Genuinely okay. “Dean, come on. If you want me to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm your friend. Remember? Lieutenant Jacobs? Your right-hand man?”   The name sparks like lighter fluid in Dean's head. The flash of memory of the war comes through, he and Jacobs talking with Sami Callihan, laughing in some crud bad that was made of mostly dirt and ashes. They toasted with shot glasses, sitting back in their seats when everything seemed like it was at a standstill. It never really was.

“I uh, I'll just get going. I don't know why I thought this would be a good idea. I've changed a lot, but it looks like you're the same, old Dean. I'll get out of your hair.” Tracing to the kitchen counter, Jacobs grabs his jacket he set aside. Standing in front of Dean one last time, a somber line resides on his mouth, a small notion of goodbye. However, Dean's not ready to let go just yet. He snaps out of his reverie and instantly, Dean's stepping over. He brings Jimmy into a hug, and in kind, Jimmy returns this hug. He pats Dean on the back, tension still thick in the air. It's a lot, but Dean doesn't want to address it just yet. He'd rather skip on that part as he moves around to sit at the table.

Setting his boots at the top of it, he looks to a relieved Jacobs with a half smile forming its way onto his features.

“So, what were you trying to make before the fire choked you out?”


	7. consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this one took so long. (Longer than usual) I was putting thoughts together. I have so many ideas for this story, but it's all about timing and I never want anything to be rushed. Comment/Review! Love hearing from you all.

The rest of the week goes by smoothly without much interruption from the outside world. As one could assume, Elizabeth and Dean spoke a couple of times, but nothing has been extravagant nor heavy as their previous conversations. She hasn't eavesdropped anymore or heard obscure explanations of Dean and who he is, so her curiosity has been put on hold. Dean's, however, hasn't. There's something about the woman that he just can't put his finger on. He wants to say that he's met her somewhere else before, but he knows it's a long shot. From what he's gathered, she hasn't been blind for very long and a year ago, he worried about his head being blown off in muddy, almost abandoned towns. He couldn't have met her anywhere, but something felt familiarly off. If it wasn't the way his head’s been creating ways he could have met her before, it's how drawn he is to this woman.  Dean's history with women is rather extensive for a soldier, but no one could expect less since he did encounter women while traveling the world. With the time he’s been back, he has dabbled in the casual array of hook-ups and flirtations. However, he never had  _ this  _ attachment. One could probably deem his trust issues with them by dating back to his mother. He didn't need a therapist to tell him that since he already knew. When Roman's insistent about going, Dean’s clear frustration bubbles at the surface of his skin in the form of blooming crimson. It's always a sign for Roman to lay off.

For some reason, Jacobs, who's gone through the war with Dean, doesn't _ know  _ when to back away. Dean's certain of this as he looks around the establishment already exasperated. The booming music doesn't appease his headache and he didn't expect it to. Catching up with Jimmy had been okay thus far and Dean even learned Jimmy got a house ten minutes from his apartment. Now, it was Sunday, and Dean decided it'd be time to finally sleep in. However, Roman  _ and _ Jimmy showed up at his door with a paycheck and a day planned. Roman called it a night at around eight after spending the day with the two, but Dean stupidly took Jimmy up on the offer to keep it going. That's what landed them in where they're currently standing. Come to think of it, Jimmy always managed to somehow land Dean in a place he wanted nothing to do with. He distinctly remembers the shallow depths of moss infested water because Jacobs instructed it should be a safer route than taking the trail. He recalls the dirt scent and it fills his nostrils as he looks across the atmosphere of where they stand. It would've been fine if an alligator didn't show up. His jaw slacks from one side and then he's flexing it out of a repressed anger. Thinking back, Jimmy abruptly leaving from his apartment ten months ago suddenly seemed like a haven.

Jimmy could almost sense the discouragement seeping off Dean's frame. “Lighten up, man. It isn't that bad,” he utters as his eyes wander at a woman who's scantily clad in pink leather. “Oh, it's not bad at all,” he adds as he traces the curves of another server walking their direction. Jimmy’s staring does nothing to hinder Dean's darkening mood. Dean rolls his eyes when he realizes what Jimmy’s doing.

“I don't see why I have to be here with you,” Dean mutters as he slides into a seat. It's like the music is just begging for entrance into his skull to pound away. He doesn't grant permission, but it does it anyway. His brain hurts and he reaches up to massage his temples as eyes close to try and take him elsewhere. “Come on, Dean, when's the last time you've been to a strip club? I say you just sit back and enjoy yourself for once. You deserve it, right? You've been working for a week, it's a miracle!” It's hysterical the way that Jimmy exclaims it. Dean's never shot someone daggers as fast as he currently did. Rolling his shoulders, Dean leans back into his seat and sighs. He could attempt to try being entertained by everything going on. The women were attractive and as any red-blooded male would, he couldn't help but let his eyes linger. The minimal amounts of clothing pump his heart a tad faster and as Jimmy always does, his talent to detect signs of change react remarkably quick.

“That’s the spirit. Listen, I'll go get us some drinks. Stay here and  _ watch _ .” Jimmy stands from the table and climbs the few steps leading to the neon bar area as Dean stays behind. Keeping his eyes wandering, Dean taps his fingers across the tabletop as he glances up center stage. The multiple men, and the few women, are of course shouting some rather vulgar expletives towards the performing woman.

She's got moves that sway her body like fluid, but Dean sits still and uses his eyes to try catching her gaze. He does eventually, locking eyes with her and it has the outside world fade away. There's almost a pleading look for help in those eyes. He has to look away because he suddenly feels overwhelmingly uncomfortable. His protest to come here didn't come to fruition because he was against gazing at gorgeous women, but because of the feeling of guilt. Places like these always hit home too close because of the raging thoughts about his mother. He thought he would be able to control them, but seeing the pain in the woman’s eyes as if this had been a last resort struck a chord deep within him. He debates for moments on end about leaving without telling Jimmy, but thoughts are cut short whenever a woman comes to his table. Dean looks up to her facial structure and immediately recognizes the features. Reaching up, his hand cups the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Your friend over there said you weren't having a good time,” her voice silkily speaks as she lightly gestures. Dean’s gaze averts from her to Jimmy who's giving him the biggest asshole thumbs up of all asshole thumbs ups. Tensing his jaw, Dean looks back to the familiar woman. He sees the way her eyes flash and he knows she recognizes him, too. “He paid for some time in the private room for you. Seems like a good guy. Come on,” she completes as she holds her hand out for Dean to take. He stares at the hand for a few seconds since it's almost patronizing to be led away like a fifth grader and a teacher. Except this is a lot different from that situation. And Dean's planning to make Jimmy’s sudden death to look like an accident. Standing erect, Dean doesn't take her hand and tilts his head for her to lead the way. She seems slightly offended, but she doesn't comment on it as she begins to walk past a security guard. His back his to the wall and he watches Dean intently as if there will be trouble caused. Dean says nothing and follows obediently into the hall. The woman pulls back a mauve curtain and she gestures for him to go further. He takes the hint, walking through and sitting into the chair in the middle of the room. With how sheer the curtain currently looks, he's positive this room is anything but private. When it comes closed, the lighting shifts slightly opaque and he realizes it's not as sheer as it seems after all. Placing his palms down on his denim covered thighs, he tenses ever so slightly as she approaches him with provocative sways of her hips.

He clears his throat to try and ease the current tension in his bones. “You don't have to do anything. Friend of mine is just being an ass.” It doesn't really stop her as Dean would hope. Her hands are at his shoulders and she looks down at him with a deviant glint in her eye. Then she's turning her back to him and he can't help but stare at the way her body moves languidly to the music he could barely hear from the outside. It's better in here then it is out there for the main reason that the music isn't bearing into the ridges of his brain. “So, why didn't you call, Dean?” There it is. He's been anticipating this conversation since the second she appeared in front of him. Dean breathes a heavy sigh and he doesn't pay homage to the way her body is trying to distract him. “I’ve been busy. Besides, I was pretty sure that was a one time thing.” He could hear her slight laugh devoid of actual humor and he recalls the reason he halted the hook-up scene entirely.

Attachment.

“It was. But I left my number for a reason. A little hope doesn't hurt.” The first thing to be peeled from her skin is the shirt. The current bra is flashy and he doesn't have to see the front to know the rest of it is gaudy. The straps in the back have jewels lining the black lace and he doesn't appreciate it merely because of the lighting. It hits the hollo glint and is too much for his liking, but he doesn't say anything about it. “I've learned that hope is the thing that tears people down. Sorry about not calling. I just didn't see it as…” there's no way to be polite about this. It's what he's found throughout his history. There's rarely those willing to depart with all ties cut. He has been with some who were looking for a good time and that's where it would end, but there would be those looking for something more. It's what he's positive Claire here is looking for. He can see it when she finally turns to him and whatever hope lasted in her expression that morning after, it was surely gone now. He didn't know she did this for a living. If he's being honest with himself, he's surprised he remembers her name. The two knew nothing about each other except the small details within bed they'll never rekindle again. Even if Dean is tempted by the way her thighs spread open and she's sitting into his lap. He's not aware of how much strippers are supposed to touch, but he does feel like it's an overwhelming amount when her hand trails to the back of his neck and beckons attention to the swell of her breasts. Dean keeps his hands to himself as her scent permeates past the barrier of his cologne. It's the softest inhale he's ever achieved, but she catches it and leans into his frame further.

Somehow, he hears the click of her heels and she hovers over him to where she can still rock. Her long legs execute the back and forth undulating waves of hips not touching anything beneath. He's a man so he can't feel apologetic for the surge of arousal coming through. It's the most difficult thing not to, but doing so would not only welcome something he needs to close the door on, it welcomes the security guard to barge in and eliminate him from the equation. Dean's debate is almost heard in Claire’s since she takes his hand. She guides it to rest on her hip, and there's the feel of fabric resting there. The lace is thin beneath Dean's fingers. The softness of it goes noticed and then he feels flesh. Warm flesh. He didn't even realize his hand is trailing downwards. At the cognizance, his hand moves back up and it's a fool’s gesture. Fingers slip underneath the material, directly touching the smooth skin of her hip while the lace sits outside what she perceives to be bold digits. Her eyes divert down. He blinks right back. Her hand goes behind her back to remove the article of clothing to free her breasts. Dean's heart pumps blood a lot faster, his pulse quickening to match growing anticipation. Then… he's shaking his head from the gossamer cobwebs she's lined up and he's meticulously removing his hand from contact. Standing to his feet, he gives her a final look of disapproval to which she remains stunned. Who resists a woman’s efforts the way he has?

He's mouthing he's sorry as he leaves from the room and goes down the hall. The guard is curious she's not with him and looks Dean over. Her emergence sets him at ease, but it doesn't sit well with Dean. He hasn't noticed she's come out to talk him back into the room because his racing adrenaline is listening to the harsh beat of the flowing music. There are a few beats, and then four of them sound off quickly.

They sound as if they came out of the barrel of a  _ gun. _

In order to stabilize himself, Dean grabs hold of the edge of a table a couple is sitting at. Normally, he would question why a couple would choose this venue for a date, but he doesn't have coherent thought. The next four gunshots take him elsewhere, out of the club entirely. He shuts his eyes closed tight, unaware of the two people staring holes into him and asking him to please move. They're fading voices. The club’s a fading memory. He's standing in the line of gunfire and he wavers as he stares around him. No one is providing succor. He's alone in this barren land and he's getting shot at. The four gunshots have him duck his head and while in this reality, he's flipped the table in the  _ actual _ reality. The two people flee when their drinks are knocked over and spilling onto Dean's frame. He's taking cover behind the table and yelling obscenities. The commotion is heard by the guard who's been watching him this entire time. The guard observes the erratic behavior further. His eyes widen when Dean is throwing the table with heaps of strength and hitting it against the side of the stage. The woman who's been performing buckles on her heels out of fear and backs up. The shriek she's emitted hits Dean's ears and he's causing more of a disaster for people to watch and back away from. Having had enough, the guard moves from where he stands. Glass smashes and he tackles Dean to the floor. Dean is a panicking mess when he's being raised from the ground and resisting. Another guard goes to help to try and restrain Dean as he yells something about guns. He's slammed hard into one of the tables as his hands are cuffed behind his back.

“Hey, woah, woah, what the hell are you doing?!” Jimmy comes forward and stares at Dean who's raised to fully stand. There's a reddened tint of course that blooms his cheek from being pushed so hard, but he's trying to calm down because he's realized what he's done. He's back in reality since the music has been cut off. Dean glances at Jimmy who looks confused and distraught and then he glances at Claire who looks scared and beside herself as if she made a poor judgment in his character. He looks away, sheepishly at the people around as well as the pained girl on the stage. They all seem like they want to yell something. He knows what those expressions are. He's seen them before from his friends: fear, confusion, and  _ disgust _ . Slumping his shoulders, Dean bows his head as he's led out of the club with Jimmy following closely behind. The night even glares down at Dean as he's taken to a police car parked outside. Gulping, he goes into the backseat without a struggle even if the guard pushes him none too gently. Jimmy is outside of the car arguing with both of the men and Dean is grateful for the muffled experience he's currently having. He doesn't have to hear what the yelling match is about and he scoots to the middle of the seat.

He wants the negotiation Jimmy’s currently having to fail. If it does, it guarantees he's going to stay inside of the police car. He stays looking forward blankly as he thinks. How could he have been so stupid to try and conform like everyone else under his condition? Roman’s always right and Dean couldn't have swallowed his pride to take a few therapy sessions? Maybe they could've prescribed a bottle of pills to avoid all of this from occurring. His jaw sets at the thought of having to behave as someone with a disorder who can't go to a proper club without nose diving behind a table. There have been many times he's felt unable to do anything in his time within New Jersey. He's out of place. He doesn't belong here. He belongs on a battlefield. Where recruits look to him for advice and those on a higher level bark orders at him. He belongs somewhere he can lead others to victory for a sense of home comes from war. Being told a year ago that he was done and it was time for him to go home had been one of the more crushing moments. He almost wanted to say he didn't want to go home.  _ That _ was his home. He has a difficult time accepting any of this as he hears the front doors open. The two men slide into their seats and they look back at him sympathetically. He knows Jimmy told them about his time in the war. He suddenly feels very enraged. If there's one thing he couldn't tolerate, it was pity.

“We understand that something’s up with you, sir, but we'd like to clear everything up at the station. Sorry, but it looks like you'll be spending a night in jail.”

Dean's stomach drops. Not for the reason being said, but for the reason of him having a job. A job he got paid for where his paycheck lied in his apartment. A job given to him by his best friend who's put faith in him to merely show up. Dean could already guess Roman would be seething.

He really fucked up.


End file.
